When I was 14, I got a first hand account at what immense ignorance I’d had of the worlds, cultures and experiences of my fellow students. Sure, I was 14, I had no idea, I’d not been taught about much else at that point. My high school wasn’t a typical one, there were kids from all over. Middle-class like myself, lower middle and below, and upper class. Four towns, all seemingly representing a general class of people, all in one school.

One of the first lunchtimes I had, sitting with dozens of other kids my age, touring every shop until we could pick the one we wanted. I had finished my lunch, and another kid offered his milk he didn’t want, he hadn’t opened it yet. I put my hand out, in a ‘first dibs’ moment, a code kids my age lived by. Immediately, I was overruled. A kid across from me reamed me out. I did not live in the projects, I wasn’t hungry, I didn’t wonder where my next meal would come from or when. I was white, and he wasn’t.

I was shocked. He took the milk instead. It was then I got a taste of what I didn’t know. I didn’t see him as poor. I didn’t see him as black or white, I didn’t see him as African or Dominican. I didn’t see him from Andover, or Lawrence or Methuen. I just saw him as a kid like me. On the one hand, that’s endearing. On the other, that’s my privilege.

One of my first best friends was John Armstrong. A Peurto Rican kid who gave me a crash course in the dynamics of every race at the school. Peurto Ricans had a faux rivalry with the Dominicans, ragging on one another, making sweeping generalizations. “Taking the piss out” of each other as I affectionally call it, stealing the phrase from my peers across the pond. It was all in fun. Naturally, they created a place for me in this immense melting pot of a school, the token white kid.

I leaned into it. When all the kids fist-bumped, fancy handshakes and their various cultural greetings, I would purposely shake hands instead, making everyone laugh, how white of me. I made fun of my whiteness right along with them. No one was any better or worse because of their color or where they came from.

I had my first proper girlfriend in high school. Of course, I quickly realized she was embarrassed of me, and wouldn’t dare be seen with me at school. However we would meet outside of school, in cafe’s, her house, mine. She was half Puerto Rican, half white. She was my first kiss. She insisted on filming it.

Yes, my first kiss is out there, on a hard drive somewhere I’d venture to guess.

She dumped me, via text. She was sitting right next to me on the couch at my house in Methuen, MA. Ouch. I got back at her by taking my friends to Graceland that same summer. She loved Elvis more than anyone I knew at the time.

My freshman year of college, I met my first real girlfriend. She was beautiful. Her mother was white, her father was black. We went out for two years and navigated all the initial “firsts” two do while in their first real relationship. It was amazing. I’m sorry to this day I left her.

After that I went out with someone who was half-Italian, half Puerto Rican. She was insane, just like her mother. She attempted to ruin my life. But that’s for another time.

After that. I met someone from Egypt. A true Egyptian. I went to visit her, it was an amazing and utter immersion into that culture. I would call it “culture shock” but I wasn’t shocked. I was pleased to know people cared for each other just as much as they do anywhere else. I was taken care of by a local pharmacist when I became ill. I nearly got my wisdom teeth out there. I wish I had.

In these times of anger, hate and ignorance, I often forget my own past. No, I will never claim I know what it’s like to be hated because of my skin color or where I come from. I’m sure at one time or another someone has, either in school, on the street or at work. I was bullied severely for a year, my ex-friends all ganging up, exclaiming how “gay” I was. They beat me up, ridiculed me, verbally abused and embarrassed me in front of all our classmates. But I was able to get through it, and understand it, and brush it off and see through it, because I don’t experience it systemically, I have that privilege. No, it’s not the same thing.

But in these times of politically charged, racially motivated crimes, and trying times, I often forget the good that I did, good that I’m doing, and good I still need to do. We all need to do better. I’m not sure any of this matters or does any good. I guess I just needed to remind myself of my past.